I’m sitting on a pub veranda with a pint, watching the city move.
Today I had some rice paper rolls for lunch. I noticed something quite interesting–the texture of moist rice paper is near identical to the skin of a green tree frog.
So if you’ve ever wondered what a frog’s skin feels like, touch some rice paper.
Alternatively, if you’ve never felt the delicate cling of a rice paper roll, grab yourself a frog.
As you were–I’m getting back to my beer.
I’m on the bus heading home after a half day at work. I’m not really any more tired than usual; just feel a bit self indulgent. The world can wait.
Listening to ACDC sing about some girl who has rhythm. I have a girl at the moment whom I adore; things are going well–I’m so scared something will happen to fuck things up.
I over-analyse things too much and play out things too far in my head. It’s useful for creating believable characters for fiction, but so draining in day-to-day life.
I, like many people, strive to attain something close to perfection in the various aspects of life; thing is, it’s never quite achievable.
I can’t get the colours to match up on my dual screen set-up at work–I guess I should just be happy with what I have.
Here are some photos from my Nokia e71. The first is from a storm in the city recently. The rest are from an excursion to the beach today.
The e71 has a 3.2 megapixel camera; however, it has a tiny lens, and doesn’t take very good photos. These images have been put through IrfanView to adjust colours (and in some cases other things). There is still quite a lot of noise in the images, but they turned out viewable for the net.
I’m writing this from the back of a moving car. We’re heading interstate to go to a certain beach; the weather is sweet, and I’m pretty sure the birds are singing.
I’ve finally got this mobile internet thing connected and working, and at some stage I’ll find a mobile blogging client that will let me post pictures on the fly.
Technology is cool.
People annoy the shit out of me, particularly pedestrians—but yesterday, I found a new kind of wanker.
I was walking down the street to meet some friends for lunch. I was running a bit late due to a meeting that had run overtime. One of those guys that spend too much time in the gym stepped out of a doorway in front of me. He wore too-tight clothing and waddled down the street, massive steroid-boosted thighs crushing tiny balls, I expect. He had a phone pressed against his ear like he was trying to affix a poster to a power pole using only spit.
However, on account of being a wanker, he held his arm perpendicular to his head like some kind of fucked-up walking right-angle triangle.
‘Yeah, mate, yeah,’ he grunted into the phone. ‘I’m walking down the street now.’
And he was, being a dickhead, elbow jutting out, meandering all over the footpath. It wasn’t just the people behind him who were being impeded, people coming towards him were being forced into the gutter.
When I’m king, this fucker won’t be getting a pedestrian licence.
I was house-sitting for a friend of a friend, looking after a little wooden house filled with hundreds of cats. Pictures of cats, tapestries of cats, little figurines, stuffed toys, paintings, postcards, paw-print pictures painted by cats, and one real, live, old, grumpy and neurotic cat.
His name was Hamish, and he was mental.
I was there for a week. I sat around eating curries, drinking wine and reading books on the little sunny veranda out the back. I played some guitar and fed the cat.
It was quite warm, so I’d left the veranda doors open to allow a cool breeze and the schizophrenic cat ingress. I’d fallen asleep at about 11:00 and stayed that way until I woke up at about 3:00 am. Something had woken me up. Something was in the room.
It’s the cat, I thought. He’s lonely and wants some company.
‘Hey, Hamish,’ I called out towards the rustling noise in the corner of the room.
‘Come here, puddy cat.’
The noise in the corner of the room walked in front of the window. The silhouette was not that of a cat.
OK, I’m awake now.
I switched the light on, and there on the window sill was a possum. Its eyes twinkled and its nose twitched. Well, this is going to be fun, I thought.
I got on the other side of the bed, so that it had a clear path to the door, and grabbed a pillow. I threw the pillow at the possum, making a shooing noise—it bounced off and the possum just crouched there looking at me, twitching. I tried again with another pillow. Then some stuffed toys that were lying around. Bert didn’t work, either did Ernie. The possum sat in a pile of pillows and toys, glaring at me. It did not look very happy.
Careful not to turn my back on it, I sidled over the bed and went looking for fresh ammunition. What I found was a broom.
I went back into the room to face the possum, resuming my position on the far side of the bed. ‘Look, possum,’ I said. ‘It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning. Can you just, like, fuck off?’
It looked at me and its little pink nose quivered.
OK, here we go, I thought and reached out with the broom. I gave it a tentative poke—it did not move. I pushed it harder—the thing was just a ball of pure muscle—it pushed back. I had no idea possums were that strong, and despite its inherent furriness, there was no way I was going to try and pick it up. It had some serious tree-climbing claws.
It was about 3:30 now, and I was dead tired. I switched the light off and got back into my now pillowless bed. I tried closing my eyes, but I could sense the possum watching me. I opened my eyes and it was still in the same place, sitting on the window sill. Oh, fuck this.
I got out of bed, switched on the light and stared at the possum. It stared back.
Then I had a thought. Carefully, I reversed the broom and held it by the sweeping end. I got a bit closer, closer than I wanted to be, and used the broom to reach past the possum and fumble with the catch on the window. I could picture the possum running up the broom and trying to climb me like a tree, but thankfully it didn’t.
I got the window open and the possum launched itself straight out.
I left work early to get a haircut yesterday.
I crossed the river (right across to the other side) and sat down in the chair.
‘Hey, darl, how do you want it?’
‘Can you just neaten up the back and sides and leave it the same length on top?’
‘Sure.’
And then, as always, she goes ahead and cuts how she feels like.
‘Ah, crap, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you have.’
‘That’s 20 bucks, darl.’
‘Thanks, see you in a few months.’
I remember I drove Dad’s truck while he followed me in Micko’s. I was only 16, and shouldn’t have been driving, but I’d been moving them around the yards for years—I was the only kid I knew who could reverse a prime mover around a corner. That is except for Dave; but he was 17.
When we stopped at the toll gates, my dad got out and walked up to talk to the guard. Both of them kept their glasses on; they spoke for a while, occasionally turning back to look at me. Eventually with a pat of solidarity on dad’s back, the guard waved me through.
‘I’ll see you at home,’ was what dad called out as I drove past.
I sat under the awning of Shed 1 with Dave, looking out at the yard and the eight remaining trucks sitting there silently, as if in mourning. Dave didn’t try to say anything, he’d found some beers, and we sat there watching the sun set, red through a haze of pollution, drinking and waiting.
It was about 8:00 when the police car arrived. Two officers got out said something to each other—the woman was shaking her head and wiping her face. They didn’t see me and Dave sitting in the darkness.
Together they walked up to the house and knocked on the door. My mum answered the door in her dressing gown. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I could see my mum shaking her head. The breeze switched direction and carried some words across to us. ‘No. No. That was Micko …’
The female cop put her hand on my mum’s shoulder while trying to wipe her own face.
‘No. No. NO!’
The hairs on my arms were standing up, and so was I. White spots flashed in front of my vision and I could hear my heart beating and my blood swirling. Dave had hold of my wrist, ‘Jim, don’t go over. Jim! Wait!’
‘Let go of me. Fucken let go of me! Dave, let go!’ With my free hand I swung and punched him square in the temple and he let go. And I let go, sprinting across the yard, sneakers slipping in the gravel, crunching and sliding I fell, tearing up my hands and knees, but I was on my feet again and running. My mum was silhouetted in the doorway and the two police turned around, and everyone’s face was wet with tears.
Jesus. Fuck.
I’ve woken up this morning drunk.
Last night was fun. I went out with some people from work; started drinking at 4:30. The others tapered off until it was just two of us left. After our fifth beer or so we thought it was probably wise to go to a different bar; so, we did.
More beer was in order, this time it came in pint glasses. A young, keen fellow came in wanting a game of pool. So we played. He was good, but I won. Twice.
Shaven headed, covered in tats, he looked a little rough. It turned out he was a nurse in an oncology ward. I asked him how he managed it—I said I couldn’t do it, being around dying people and their families all the time. He said he pretty much grew up in an oncology ward—he survived a rare form of Leukaemia.
The people you meet, hey?
The baby next door has been bawling for the last hour.
When I typed the title of this post, everything went quiet.
When I typed that last line, it started screaming again.
Shut up, damn you!
Shhhhhhh …
